“You know him, Miss?” asked the man, in surprise, and she went red. It was impossible to explain that the Slaters’ Cottage was to be her home (as she believed) and that his eccentric employer was her future husband.
“Yes, I know him,” she said awkwardly. “He is—a friend of mine.”
“Oh!”
Evidently this statement checked a certain frankness on the part of Mr Carter. Joan could almost guess what he would have said.
She was smiling as she came back to the road. This freakish and feverish rebuilding of Slaters’ Cottage was exactly the thing she would have expected from Clifford Lynne. Why she should, she did not know. Only it seemed as though he had been especially revealed to her; that she alone of the family understood him.
She heard a clatter of hoofs behind her, and moved to the side of the road.
“Bon jour—which I understand is French!”
She turned, startled. It was the man who at that moment was in her thoughts. He was riding a shaggy old pony, sleepy-eyed, almost as dishevelled as himself.
“What an awful trouble you must have had to find a horse that matched you!” she said. “I’ve seen your car—that was a perfect fit!”
Clifford Lynne’s eyes puckered as though he was laughing, but no sound came; yet she could have sworn he was shaking with laughter.
“You’re very rude,” he said, as he slipped from the pony’s back, “and offensive! But don’t let us start quarrelling before we are married. And where did you see the car?”
She did not answer this.
“Why are you rebuilding this awful old cottage?” she asked. “Mr Carter said it will cost you thousands.”
He looked at her for a little while without speaking, fingering his beard.
“I thought I would,” he said absently. “I’m kind of eccentric. Living in a hot climate for so long may have affected my brain. I’ve known lots of fellows go like that! It’s rather romantic, too,” he mused. “I thought I’d get some climbing roses and honeysuckle, and perhaps run a cabbage patch and chickens—are you fond of chickens?” he asked innocently. “Black Dorkings or White Wyandottes, or vice versa? Or ducks perhaps?”
They had reached the end of the road, the shaggy pony following obediently.
“Old Mr Bray was rather set on your marrying one of our family, wasn’t he?” she asked, so unexpectedly that for the moment he was taken aback.
“Why, yes,” he said.
“And you were awfully fond of Mr Bray?”
He nodded.
“Yes, I think so. You see, we lived together for so long, and he was a likeable old devil. And he nursed me through cholera, and if it hadn’t been for him I should have pegged out—which is Spanish for died. I certainly liked him.”
“You liked him so much,” she challenged, “that when he asked you to come to England and marry one of his relations, you promised–-“
“Not immediately,” he pleaded. “I made no promise for an awful long time. To tell you the truth, I thought he was mad.”
“But you did promise,” she insisted. “And shall I tell you something else you promised?”
He was silent.
“You told poor Mr Bray you would say nothing that would make the girl reject you and spoil his plans!”
Only for a moment was the bearded man embarrassed.
“Clairvoyance was never a favourite science with me,” he said. “It’s too near witchcraft. I knew an old woman up in Kung-chang-fu who–-“
“Don’t try to turn the subject, Mr Lynne. You promised Mr Bray that when his relations produced a girl of the family for you to marry, you would say nothing which would make her change her mind, that you would in fact express no unwillingness to marry.”
He fondled his invisible chin.
“Well, maybe you’re right,” he confessed. “But I’ve said nothing,” he added quickly. “Have I told you that I’m not a marrying man, and loathe the idea of matrimony? Have I told you how poor old Joe has blighted my young life? Have I gone on my knees and begged you to refuse me? Own up, Joan Bray!”
She shook her head; the smile that was in her eyes was now twitching at her lips.
“You’ve said nothing, but you’ve made yourself look a scarecrow.”
“And fearfully repulsive?” he asked hopefully.
She shook her head.
“Not quite. I’m going to marry you; I suppose you know that?”
The gloom in his face was such that she could have smacked him.
“I don’t want to marry you, of course,” she said tartly, “but there are—there are reasons.”
“Old Narth has forced you into it,” he said accusingly.
“Just as old Mr Bray forced you into it,” she replied at once. “It is a queer position, and it would be tragic if it wasn’t laughable. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but there’s one thing I wish you to do.”
“What is that?” he asked.
“Go to a barber’s and have that ridiculous beard shaved,” she said. “I want to see what you look like.”
He sighed wearily.
“In that case I’m booked,” he said. “Once you see my face you will never, never give me up. I was the best-looking man in China.”
He held out his hand.
“Congratulations,” he said simply, and she dissolved into laughter, and was still laughing when she came up the drive and met Mr Narth’s suspicious frown.
CHAPTER NINE
“What is amusing you?” asked Stephen, who at the moment had good reason for being anything but amused.
“I’ve just been talking to my—fiancé,” she said, and Stephen’s face cleared.
“Oh, the wild man!” he said.
He had a letter in his hand. The morning post came early at Sunningdale.
“Joan, I want you to come to the City today—to lunch.”
This was a surprising invitation. As a rule when she went to the City she lunched alone.
“A little bit of a lunch in the office,” he said awkwardly. “And I want you to meet a friend of mine—er—a rather brilliant fellow, an Oxford graduate and all that sort of thing.”
His manner rather than his words puzzled her. He was so obviously ill at ease that she could only wonder at the cause of his embarrassment.
“Is Letty coming?” she asked.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “Only you and I and my—um—friend. I suppose you’ve none of those stupid prejudices against—er—foreigners?”
“Foreigners? Why, no—you mean he isn’t European?”
“Yes,” said Mr Narth, and coughed. “He is Asiatic; in point of fact, he’s a Chinaman. But he’s an awfully important person in his own country, my dear, a mandarin or a governor or something, and a perfect gentleman. I wouldn’t ask you to meet anybody I shouldn’t care to meet myself.”
“Why, of course, Mr Narth, if you wish me to…”
“His name is Grahame St Clay. He has large commercial interests both in this country and abroad.”
Grahame St Clay?
Where she had heard that name before, she could not for the moment recall. She asked a question as to the hour and went into the house, wondering for what especial reason she had been chosen as Mr Narth’s luncheon guest and why he was so anxious for her to meet his new acquaintance. She had never heard the name before until–-
Try as she did, she could not remember when it had been mentioned.
Mr Narth, somewhat relieved, went back to the library and read the letter again. This was the first consequence of his loan, and already he was regretting a transaction which gave a Chinaman the right of addressing him as ‘My dear Narth.’ There were only a dozen lines of neat writing:
Since I met you today, I have heard that your niece, Miss Joan Bray has become engaged to Clifford Lynne, whom I know slightly. I should very much like to meet this young lady. Won’t you either bring her to lunch at the Albemarle, or, if it is more convenient to you, to the City? Perhaps you would fix your own time and place. Please arrange this and telephone me as soon as you get to your office.